


Temptation

by coffeeandcharacters



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Slow Burn, slightly OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:15:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8873614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcharacters/pseuds/coffeeandcharacters
Summary: Lieutenant Bellamy Blake and Dr. Clarke Griffin are recruited to live in the nuclear warhead bunker for six months while the Third World War rages on above them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was based off of the song "The Temptation of Adam" by Josh Ritter. Loved the premise so I wrote it with Bellarke. Happy reading!

Dr. Clarke Griffin, though ignoring me with every fiber of her being, was captivating every inch of my attention. This wasn't just because she was the only one I was going to be in direct contact with for six months -- it was because of the way she incessantly tapped her fingers on her thighs, the intense concentration as she slowly counted down the floors as the elevator descended into the bunker, silently mouthing each number to herself. It was also the way the freckles in her irises dusted into a small galaxy that swirled and combusted, her hair following along in the chaos and escaping her manicured bun in small, blonde wisps. Even when she was ignoring me, she was completely beautiful.

I knew she had to notice the way I studied her, but she didn't care. When I'd gotten notice of this assignment two weeks ago, I was given her name. From what I gathered from her files, she was a nuclear physicist and chemical engineer. She'd done both of her doctorates at the University of Michigan and conducted groundbreaking research for MIT all before she was thirty. Sometime in there, she was contracted by the United States government to help rebuild the nuclear power programs after the Third World War had begun. Her credentials were enough to impress me, but somehow, in that moment in the elevator, it was her poise and calm demeanor that took me by surprise. She was brilliant _and_ beautiful; a blonde bombshell of a physicist who dominated her field. No doubt used to the stares, the doubts, the lingering.

Though I'd read all about her, and most likely she about me, she'd probably already decided exactly who I was from our formal introduction not ten minutes ago on the surface -- Lieutenant Bellamy Blake, a sturdy, patriotic American boy who worked hard, played hard, and saw the bunker as an adventure. I mean, she wasn't wrong. The badges on my uniform were indeed something I was proud of, but just like her white lab coat, that didn't define me.

The elevator was creaky and old, dating back to the Cold War days when this silo was built. _Protection_ , they called it. _A precaution into the unsteady world that we're emerging into._ The world was indeed unknown and scary now. The Third World War had begun and it was consuming each country along with it. It had been seven months since Paris was destroyed with a warhead sent from China, and the retaliation on China from what remained of the United Nations set off a domino effect of destruction. New Delhi, Caracas, Berlin, New York City, and Mexico City all fell within a month after the initial attacks. The effects on the global politics were insurmountable as coalitions failed and treaties were broken. It was every country for themselves for a while, but even governments cannot withstand the anarchy of the people behind their borders. Systems failed and man ruled, just as it was before the gavel even existed.

The United States military, once vast and expansive, was condensed to a handful of those who still believed in their power. Generals, Captains, engineers, and of course, good patriotic boys like me kept the dying system alive with all of our might. Or, we were trying to. I was one of seven lieutenants who would have to take our rotational turns in the bunker. Most of the other men saw it as a death sentence -- sent down to a closed, contained bunker for six months with no updates on the outside world or what was left of it, no communication in or out -- but I saw it as a quasi-vacation in this crazy world. Six months I got to sit and do simple daily checklists and wait for a phone that may or may not ring, telling me to press a button. The other lieutenants would miss their loved ones who still existed on the surface. I guess I was lucky in the fact that I had no one left to miss.

Two hundred floors in this metal case went by slow and my intrigue with Dr. Griffin grew with each minute that passed. Pulling my backpack from my back and swinging it around to the floor, I unzipped it and began to rummage through my limited personal belongings that were approved for my time down here. A few changes of clothes, an old ukulele, battered copies of _the Odyssey_ and _the Iliad_ , a few personal letters from my fellow soldiers and my acquaintances, and a deck of cards littered the small, shared space of the elevator until I finally found my army-issued cell phone lying at the bottom.

I sighed and stood up, leaving the mess on the ground. I knew I'd gained her attention with my rummaging, but she was too proud to let it show. Was it my something in my files that kept her from wanting to talk? Or was she simply bad at making new friends? She kept her eyes fixed on the elevator ticker. -152, -153, -154 ...

"Damn, you getting any service right now?" I asked, flipping the phone open and showing her the giant NO SIGNAL message that flashed on the small screen.

Her eyes flickered from the screen to mine and back to the screen again before they rolled back into her head and she returned to her stance in waiting for the elevator to ding and for us to be out of this confined space. Though she was obviously not impressed, I still smiled. The stoic demeanor did nothing on my impression of her. She was something, that's for sure. She was simply too brilliant of a person not to be. In that moment I'd decided we'd have a good six months in this missile silo bunker.

When the elevator doors opened, the first thing I saw was the missile. There was an enormous window into the silo that consumed an entire wall of the bunker. Painted red and fixed with enough radiation and power to destroy a city, the intensity of the warhead commanded the space. The elevator doors hadn't even finished opening before she made her swift exit, squeezing past me and the mess that still existed on the ground. Her steps echoed in the sterility of the bunker. It was no bigger than 500 square feet -- a small common area with an uncomfortable square couch and an old television was situated across from a simple kitchenette, filled with enough rations and water to last us a year. The walls were lined with old VHS tapes of military approved films and sitcoms, the cardboard boxes wearing thin from the use over the years. It was nice to see a bit of comfort included in the bunker, but any bit of homeliness was ruined by the blinking and intense command center that took up more than half of the space. There was one large, swiveled chair in front of all of this, with a front-row view into that giant window, as of to say, _never lose focus, never forget what's important._

Scanning around for Clarke, I heard her rustle in her private quarters off to the right. Seemingly as soon as she'd stepped into the space, she was out of it and into the scrub room, putting on her radiation suit. I could see her work quickly and carefully through the paneled glass in the door, eager to get into the silo and get to work. In that moment I wondered if she'd already forgotten I was there with her.

She was in charge of maintaining the health of the warhead, and I was in charge of that big red button to set it free. Every country had these nukes prepped and ready to go, and I knew it was absolutely necessary that this country, whatever was left of it, needed to have a nuclear warhead in its arsenal. I was proud to have remained with the military of my government, but the weapon left an uneasy feeling in my stomach. Just because I was in charge of it didn't mean I loved it. I figured I'd have to learn to love it though; six months I'd wait down here for an order that may or may not come, six months I'd have to play a game of when with a bomb. My hand would hover above that big red button in careful patience until my dues are done and another lieutenant comes to relieve my position. But to say I was in charge of the missile was a lie -- the missile was in charge of me. Red as a fire truck and scary as hell, the nuclear warhead was in control of itself. I was simply there to help it along its path of destruction.

Later that night, I lounged on the couch reading old, battered manuals when I saw her for the second time that day. She ignored me, as per usual, as she made her way to the kitchenette and began working around. I put my book down to study her; the curly blonde hair was still up in that tight bun, exposing her shoulders and back. Small, faint freckles that graced the tips of her shoulders, splattered like paint from the messy hand of her creator.

Pulling my book back up to my face, I spoke:

"Chicken noodle soup. That's a solid choice, there."

I heard the all too familiar silence as she fiddled with the can she'd grabbed from the shelf with no regard to my comment.

"Oh, come on," I urged, making a show out of letting my book fall into my lap in an exasperated thud. "That was funny! Don't tell me you're not a fan of puns."

Still nothing. After a moment of lingering on her as she contorted the can opener, I returned to my manual. A minute or two passed before my patience wore thin once more.

"Look, it's going to be a long six months down here if you don't give me something, princess," I call out without looking up from my page.

"Don't call me that," she snapped, back still turned towards the sofa.

"Well then don't act like one and talk to me."

Clarke sat down the spoon she'd been using to stir her chicken noodle soup, placed her hands on the edges of the countertops, and twisted around to face me.

"I'm just here doing my job, Lieutenant. In case you haven't noticed, we're sitting on top of a nuclear warhead that we are responsible for maintaining so that it's armed and ready to strike at a moment's notice. I take my job down here seriously. So should you. I just don't have time for small talk or silly conversation," she explained.

I know that she was stewing in her own annoyance with me, but this was the first time that she had maintained eye contact for longer than it took for her eyes to roll back in her head. Her irises were the color of a June afternoon; a cloudless day with nothing but the infinite sky extending over an endless horizon. At that moment, I didn't care that it wasn't in the best of circumstances that we were communicating, but that I could keep her attention for any time at all.

Everyone I'd ever met fit seemed to fit into a pegged hole. People weren't a mystery to me, even after the riots and the anarchies began. I'd met them all -- those who are friends but still forget to call, distant girlfriends who could never stay long enough to keep a toothbrush next to mine, teachers who tell you you're special until you realize it's what they say to everyone, sisters who leave without an explanation, and parents who don't raise you. I'd reverted to books in attempt to feel some sort of spark, some kind of flash that would wake me up from this numbness I felt while walking around the world I had in front of me. Though ash and destruction was the last thing I expected to see in my future, I was still bored.

This assignment, however, shocked me more than I'd realized it would. Dr. Griffin was smart; she excelled past what all others previously could and kept going. She was a woman in a man's field. She was completely unexpected. When I first met her, though her taut, practiced handshake was the same I'd had thousands of times before, I felt the first thing I had in months.

I surfaced from my examination of her eyes and lifted one corner of my mouth into a sly smile. Pushing myself up from my lounged position, I crossed my arms in playful contempt.

"Well," I started. "If you need me, I'll be sitting next to the radioactive warhead to warm myself up after that conversation."

Walking out of the room and into my own quarters, I smiled to myself as I heard her mumble under her breath. She knew the laws of reactions as well as I did -- you need a reaction to overcome a barrier, and only after that energy is added, you get the product you want. A reaction of spite was better than no reaction at all.

 

Her concentration as she chewed on the end of her pencil was truly picturesque. She kept one hand close to her face, index finger persistently tapping against her temple as if that repetitive motion could conjure up the answer she needed. Clarke's eyebrows furrowed as she ransacked her brain for words. She was sitting at the table across from me hunched over her beloved crossword book, steaming cup of tea on her left. I'd discovered the crossword was her solace, her escape from the work she did day to day. In the twelve days we'd spent together, I'd learned of her obsession with each puzzle. She kept it with her at all times, and in some moments I'd witness her come up with an answer she'd been working on all day, running towards the book in excitement to scribble it down.

She rarely paid attention to me in these quiet moments we shared every morning. However, her concentration became so severe that morning that she smacked her hand against the table in frustration. I looked up from my book, mostly in surprise, but also with intrigue. So much time had gone by and not one word, one peep, one sound had come from Clarke Griffin. She found my eyes and in an exasperated sigh, she spoke the first words I'd heard in twelve days.

"What's a seven letter word for 'deference'?"

I heard a twinge of desperation in her voice as her eyes found mine. She must have been thinking of this word for a while to even think to ask me, to break her personal vow of silence. I kept eye contact and smiled at her, soaking in this moment that Clarke Griffin needed my help. Relishing in the moment for a moment longer, I stood up and, without a word, walked into my quarters. "

Thanks," she remarked, irritated I wouldn't indulge her.

I returned with my ukulele in hand as I sat down in my chair across from her once again. I cleared my throat and tried a few strings -- perfectly in tune. This gained her attention as her eyes traveled up to meet mine.

With the twinge of my ukulele giving the classic song a tropical feel, I began to belt out Aretha Franklin's 'Respect.' She stared at me in amazement, and didn't interrupt or lose eye contact for my entire rendition.

When I was finished, I set my ukulele down on the table and raised a thoughtful eyebrow at her. As if a light had broken through a storm cloud, Clarke laughed. Her eyes creased and dimples surfaced on her cheeks. The laugh was melodic and loud, echoing through the concrete walls of the bunker. It was spectacular and mysterious and I knew immediately that I had to hear it more.

 

From that day forward, Clarke was more comfortable around me. I guess she realized there was more to me than meets the eye as well. I would tell her good morning, and she'd return the greeting with a soft smile. On some days, I'd ask how her day in the silo went, and she'd tell me the same, short answer of _everything is the way it should be. It's ready to launch at any time_. I'd always tell her goodnight, and to have sweet dreams as we retreated to our own quarters at the end of the day. She'd tell me the same, and I could swear I could see a shy grin on her face as she slowly closed the door.

"Tell me about your family," I asked one night over dinner. She'd been reading her notes from the day and stopped mid-chew to look at me in surprise.

Pausing before taking a big gulp, she replied, "There's no one to talk about. Not really."

"What about friends?" I countered.

She shook her head. "My job keeps me pretty busy. We lost contact over the years."

I sat back and tried my very hardest to imagine Dr. Clarke Griffin as a friendless, lonely person. There was so much more to her than her job, there simply had to be.

"What about you, Blake?"

Her intrigue into my life took me by surprise. A month into our life down here and this is the first information she had ever asked for.

"You can call me Bellamy," I replied.

I paused before answering the question as I gave her a short chuckle and averted my eyes. At that moment, the spots of the floor were easier to hold than her inquisitive gaze.

I could bore her with the all-too familiar story of the untimely demise of my father and the distance of my alcoholic mother. My runaway teenage sister, who only answers my calls on Christmas and my birthday, but could care less about my being. I could tell her that I broke out of my suburban hometown at the age of eighteen to join the Marine corps, desperate to find something other than my passed out mother and empty bottles of bourbon on the living room floor. One tour in the Middle East and countless months spent in training in DC went by with nothing but silence from my last remaining kin, until one day two years ago when I'd gotten the news that she'd succumbed to her habits. She wasn't the mother any kid should have ever had. She was the kind that only stayed because she had to; the temptations of her youth keeping her from staying sober, coming home every night, or being reckless in general. Though she was a wreck of a person, she was still the only person I had. Friends and relationships came and went like the rising of the Carolina tide, and I was left with just her. Until two years ago, then I was left with just me.

I could say all this, but instead I put on a quick smile and answered simply.

"Don't have any."

"And your friends?" she echoed.

"Not very good at keeping those, either."

Clarke sat back in her chair and found the spot in her notes where she'd left off. I returned to my meal, stewing over the histories of my past and recounting all I could tell her and wondering if she was doing the same with me. Why was I so dense? My inability to share was hindering my relationships, as the military psychiatrist had said to me once. I was so invested on knowing her, but I still couldn't open up.

"We're not so different after all," she stated minutes after the conversation had fizzled.

I broke from my concentration on creating mounds in my rice to see her eyes softly fixed on me. It was foreign see the tenderness of Clarke's face - a face I'd only seen behind the masks of concentration, annoyance, or a combination of the two. There was something in that moment that told me I'd broken a barrier or a wall of some sort, and that we shared an inability to socialize friendships, yet here we were, on the brink of something more.

 

Days turned into weeks which turned into months, and a friendship began to blossom between us. She'd ask about my favorite foods and I'd ask about her college life. She asked to read _the Odyssey_ , and I offered it in exchange for five crossword puzzles. It was a lively and extensive debate, but finally we'd agreed and shook on the Crossword Deal Odyssey of 2054. There was a span of a few weeks where I'd find her lying on the couch entranced by one of the ancient sitcoms that came stocked in the bunker, and I'd tease her about her obsession with their fictitious lives.

"They're so happy," she'd muse. "Even when they're not, even when it's all going wrong for them, they can fix it."

Clarke became so engrossed in one show that she put off an entire day's work only to see if Kevin would repair his relationship with Emily, though he'd already cheated on her with Zoe. I'd get recaps of the shows when I'd walk past her spot on the couch. I never finished a full episode, but Clarke's devotion to her stories made me feel as if I was right there watching each one with her.

Sometimes, she'd dance around in her radiation suit when she knew I was watching from the window, just to make me laugh. On more than one occasion, I'd find a stick figure or doodle drawn on the corner of my daily log. Clarke was endlessly unfolding herself in front of me and I was honored to be a witness.

We spent our free time in the evenings watching classic movies that we both agreed on (though it took most of the evenings to figure out what was considered classic or not), fixing together a worn-out puzzle, or playing cards. She was a true card shark, swindling me out of my stock of chocolate rations we used to gamble. I loved chocolate and hated losing, but a few times I let her win the hand, just because of the ear-to-ear grin that spread across her face was too precious not to see every once in a while.

Most days we talked for what felt like eons compressed into the constraints of a few hours. She joked about my interesting choices in books, and I joked about her interesting choices in puzzles. Our chats were filled with laughs and lingering looks, pausing every so often to continue on with our jobs. She was so beautiful; I was nearly afraid to blink because I didn’t want to miss the small tug of her smile that she seemed to slip in the moments between seconds.

I'd even agreed to teach her how to play the ukulele. I was patient and observant, but my goodness, Clarke was tone deaf and had little-to-no hand-eye coordination. She would get frustrated and storm off, only to come back a few minutes later with a newfound determination. She was only seven notes into "Somewhere Over The Rainbow," when she dropped the ukulele in her lap and let out a frustrated grunt.

"It's _not_ simple, Bellamy," she snapped, upset over my chuckling. "Physics is simple. Machines are simple. This damned ukulele is not simple!"

"You've got to keep practicing," I explained, walking over to my cup of coffee that had now gone cold. "What, did your parents never make their little princess practice an instrument?"

Her face fell from frustration to shock and then tightened into anger.

"I've told you before. Don't call me that," she snapped.

My face must have asked the question, because she immediately sighed and looked down to her hands. Her emotions turned on their heels once more as the fleeting anger turned into sadness and Clarke began to tell me the story of her family. Her parents were wealthy and renowned scientists, too busy for her daughter or the parenting life that came with it. She grew up with nannies and caretakers, and only heard or saw her parents every few months when they'd come back from symposiums or research destinations. All of her life, money was never an issue. She had the best education, the best tutors, and access to all the information she could get her hands on. But it wasn't the money that drove her to her success -- it was her desire to work past it. She got into college on full scholarships and left her parents and the lifestyle behind. She worked simple jobs in labs to pay rent and cut coupons with pleasure. Her eyes glistened as she remembered the day they finally asked her where she was and why she wasn't home when they'd returned, seven months into her freshman year.

Clarke's file gave me so much information about her, but these moments where she told me about her life, her family, and her past gave me more than I could have ever imagined. I could see the weight she carried from her childhood, but she handled it with grace. The more I got to know her, the more I was sure that she was absolutely the best person I had ever met.

 

One night, I was awoken from a light slumber to the gentle shaking of my shoulder. I slowly opened my eyes to see her crouching near my bed wearing her big University of Michigan t-shirt, pajama pants, and a mess of a bun on the top of her head.

"Hey," she whispered. "Bellamy, wake up."

"What?" I answered. "What's up? What time is it?"

There must have been a sleepy urgency in my voice because she shook her head and I could see the shadow of a smile creep across her face.

"Nothing bad, don't worry. I've just had an idea," she explained, wonder in her eyes.

She began to explain her idea of warhead missiles and the human race, using her hands and gesturing wildly above her head. She talked about how they were always linked, the destroyers and the destruction, always chasing each other around like cats and dogs. I listened quietly and intently, nodding along to her questions and reacting to her hypotheses, but mainly I just watched her passion and intrigue flow freely in the space between us. Perhaps it was the early hour of morning that she'd woken me up, or the drowsy state I was in, but the silhouette of her curly blonde hair against the floodlights of the hallway was truly ethereal, creating a halo of artificial light.

 

We didn't have to learn to fall in love with each other, we just did. I'd wake up most days with Clarke nestled into the empty space on my twin-sized bed, seeing no problem with the size of the bed. In the mornings, she'd walk up behind me while I made instant coffee, groggy with sleep, and she'd wrap me into her cocoon of the comforter she dragged around with her. She'd raise herself on her toes to kiss the top of my head as she walked by, grab my hand every time we sat down next to each other, and run her fingers along my spine as we slept at night.

One late night spent four months in I found her wrapped up in that big blanket in the command center chair. She was holding a cup of tea between her palms, soaking in the heat as it steamed beneath her chin. On the table there was a map of the world above -- the world with harsh, bold lines between countries and vast expanses between continents. The broken world we called home.

I'd wanted to ask her what she was thinking, where her mind wandered to as she concentrated on this map. She'd answered my question before I even asked, keeping her eyes on focused as she ran her fingers lazily over the United States.

"Is it possible to love in a world like this?"

She didn't have to explain; I knew what she meant. A world torn with wars and famine and death - a world we had an active hand in maintaining by working in this bunker.

"Maybe we just need to look for it," I suggested.

Her eyes drifted from their concentration towards mine as she rested her chin on her mug and smiled. She then lifted her head and opened a drawer in the command center, taking out a tin of frail pushpins.

"We could find love in Paris," she suggested, sticking a pin into the city on the map.

"Or in Bali." Another pin.

"I've always thought that the Caribbean looked romantic," her head tilted slightly as she gingerly pushed the pin into the middle of the turquoise sea.

My heart sank with every pin because Paris was a distant memory, destroyed to ash by the bombs. Indonesia was overcome with cholera after Australia had destroyed most of the large cities. Even the Caribbean was lost to the powers of the people, making it unsafe for anyone to visit. Clarke's ideals of the world had not changed with the passing years. She still saw the shiny, spinning globe that existed peacefully.

Handing me a small handful of pins, she passed the challenge off to me. The unspoken question of where we could find love hung in the air.

I kept my eyes on her bright blue ones and wondered I'd ever need to see the colors of the Caribbean if I had those to look into; if I'd ever need to experience the vibrant life of Indonesia if I had the sound of her laughter -- if I needed love, I knew exactly where to look. I gently put all but one pin back into her palm as I pushed the point into our top-secret location 500 feet under the ground.

 

Time was a tricky thing down in the bunker. At first, Clarke was eager to cross off each new day on the calendar posted on the wall, but I was reluctant to see the visual reminder of our time remaining. As we approached our few remaining days, there never seemed to be enough hours in the day to talk about life, about love, about theories of space and what we thought about the latest presidential election. I soaked up every minute I had to spend with my Clarke, and as the time grew shorter, each moment became sweeter.

I thought of the world we lived in today. Holding her was like holding a whole new world that didn't exist until right now, until we created our very own down here in this bunker. If we ever emerged onto the ground again, the war may still rage on. Another physicist and another lieutenant would come take our spots, break into our world and create a new one. The thought that our time here was coming to a close terrified me.

We had only five nights left in our bunker. As we lay side by side on that square, uncomfortable couch, I could only notice the sound of her breathing, the smell of her shampoo, the gentle thud of her heartbeat that pounded against my ribs. I held her closer to me and she nestled deeper into my chest.

I began to think about our jobs in this bunker. Even if we deployed this missile, it could do nothing to the decaying state of our earth and our governments. She'd go back to the labs she excelled in, I'd go back to taking orders from my superiors. We were two people who would have never been together on the surface but found each other on this confidential mission underground. Our world down here was so perfect. There were no wars, no death, no one to tell us how to live or who to love; it was just us two.

I had no one on the surface, neither did she. We'd voiced solidarity of our loneliness to one another, only remedied by the other's presence. I held her and told her that it was fate down here in this bunker, but she'd laughed and told me of the statistical improbabilities of fate. She drowned my romance with science, but deep down I knew she agreed. Fate was definitely at work in this bunker. Fate's destructive, deadly hand had a part in our love story.

My mind continued racing. I started to think onto a new tangent. We had enough rations to last us six more months, but I doubted the war would rage on that long. The world on the surface we lived in was desolate, desperate, and decaying. Our world in this concrete bunker was thriving. I thought about the war and wonder if we'd really care if the world ended above our heads. Clarke said she had nothing up there, I was sure that she really meant it. I knew I had no one. If that bomb deploys, and my hand had a part in the end of the world, we'd still have six more months left in our bunker. I could hold her until the end of it and that's all I needed. My hand, controlled by a single ring from the bright red telephone, telling me when to push. I'd stopped believing in that telephone a while ago. I'd decided fate was the new ringing in my head.

As she slept soundly in the crook of my arm, my eyes wandered over to the control center, just visible from my place in the common area. The gleaming of the plastic of that great big button was taunting me, reflecting the lights almost like a spotlight upon the end of the world. Calling to me, prophesizing a life that could be from a life that was, telling me of my fate. I couldn't quite explain it fully, but there was something about that big red button that tempted me.


End file.
